A Perfect Prison of Thought
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: Ambrose's perspective on the mental invasion perpetrated by our Magnificent Heroes.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Tin Man© Sci-Fi original mini-series or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Sci-Fi, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: Part three of the mini-series.

**Characters**: Ambrose, Glitch, Cain, DG, Raw

**Warnings**: None.

**Author's Note**: Now I'm finally collecting older fanfiction penned for other fandoms here, too; I hadn't written _Tin Man_ in a while, and it was kind of nice to stumble back upon it. Somewhat old, but I like it. Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

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There was something to be said about being trapped in a quagmire of goo for fifteen annuals, and what effects it had on the mind. Or, rather, the part of the mind trapped within it.

Ambrose considered the form before him, a curious skirl of quasi-sentiment rising in him. Familiar and foreign, his missing half; Glitch, it was called, yes? How distinctly odd. He recognized it all, in a clinical manner of speaking, with what little he was aware of the world. The oddball features, the peculiar slant of brow – tweaked into an expression he was fairly certain he had never worn (how could any part of him be quite that vapid?), but still _him_. Even the mental paths, as distorted as they had been, reminded him sharply of what had come before the Separating.

Ah, what a traumatic event that had been. Flawlessly done, of course – commendable craftsmanship, truly – but he could only wonder at what aftershocks in had wreaked on his remaining psyche. Though, in all honesty, his lesser half's sanity was of little import – it was just the chaff of the experiment. He, Ambrose, was the finished and _intended_ result.

He remembered everything, existed only as a perfect storehouse of information, unable to let emotion or irrationality interfere with his faultless, logical synapses. Not at all like the fundamentally defective beings before him. Feh. What pitiful, simpering beings, shuffling along in that pedantic ruse designated as 'life'. They communicated in that slow, simple way bodies did, mouths stumbling after what the _mind_ could do in mere seconds. Their importance was minimal. Dismissible.

He turned his consciousness away, curling back inward, shoving away the awareness of their collective presence. Now, he could focus on… what was this now?

He registered the vibrations of physical contact with his resting place. A sort of pressure built, just at the edge of perception, like questing fingers prodding at the far end of a bed to find the body within it. Curious, he pushed forward to analyze this odd bit of sensation, so alien after being entombed for so long.

Then… then he wasn't alone.

Thoughts floated in and out, muddled and muffled, and, oh, my, was this what having a body was like? It was all so very familiar, and, yet, so… not. That hardly made sense now, did it? He was all about sense, and he knew when it wasn't around. Yes, he most certainly did, and this was not – wait, wait, what had he been going on about? This wasn't at all right. Not in the slightest. He had been doing something, yes? Cain had wanted him to do something. Who the devil was Cain again? Oh, yes, that man, the stoic looking thing that darted its eyes about in that singularly insipid way only the lesser minded seemed capable of. Though that was hardly a nice way to think about someone.

He reeled back, stunned by the cacophony of nonsense. But the outsider – the _Other_ – kept coming, drawn by some strange sense of purpose. Desperate, Ambrose thrust back, and found no resistance to his intrusion, fumbling about in the confines of a broken mind. Their thoughts entwined and tangled hopelessly, desperate to understand each other, but unable to find the link to bridge the gap between them.

The pressure intensified, and expanded.

Glitch, Ambrose – two people, one mind, one person, it had been too long, too long apart and they couldn't _both_ be there–

And it wasn't making any _sense_! Why wasn't it making any sense?

But he had been doing something and it had been so very _important_ to everyone, and he couldn't just forget now. Panic rose in him, pushing and pulling and shoving about like a drunken bull in a crowded room, followed quickly by a distinct impression of escalating anxiety and futility. They couldn't fail now, not when it really counted. Everyone else had done so much, and he had to, had to… had…

Oh, dear, what was going on again?

Ambrose lurched away again, flinching from the madness, frantic to escape the patent idiocy surrounding him. But it pulled him back with sickening sense of resolve, pressing for the needed information.

He didn't want to feel these… _emotions_, these _sensations_, and he felt the same vague distaste from his mobile half. Clearly they were no longer compatible, and any and all contact should have been immediately terminated.

But he had to. They _asked_ him to.

He spiraled out in confusion, clutching desperately at the cold detachment he had become accustomed to. No, not clutch. _Seize_.

"—Glitch?"

"It's _Ambrose_." How very odd! His vocal cords tingled, the vibration and the interaction with tongue movements producing the words to convey information. How delightfully rustic. He could scarcely remember what a tongue had been like but moments ago, and already he was handling it as if he had been doing it all his life.

A strange flush of pleasure shot through him, as he thought on it. He had _communicated_. Vocally. He had said his name. They had expressed a concern and he had articulated a response, in real time.

He volleyed information back and forth with the primitive, lesser creatures, using the conduit of his discarded body. He would have done anything they asked of him, just to keep the connection going. To exchange intelligence with other, rational beings, no longer trapped within the bounds of his own mind… he had forgotten how… how… how wonderful it was. Codes? Numbers? Music! To voice the equations – ah, but no, they wanted specific, yes? That's what his repressed self was clamoring about.

With a laughable casualness, he drew up in queried information, relaying it via the slow yet steady method of discourse. Language. Idiolect. The words were positively invigorating! They fed some void that had been growing within himself, one he hadn't even realized he had been drawn into.

Contact. Human contact.

_Psychology_. Ah, yes, he remembered it now – had cause to reflect on the collected data from his brief foray into the tangled web of the human brain, in years long past. All humans required such exchanges – dialogue between themselves and others. He was certain there had been a reason for it, as silly and overemotional as it had been—

Heady, dizzying fear; a impression of lurching queasiness; the tenuous connections severing as the psychic contact faltered and failed.

The body was ripped away, tearing his fractured mind to bits once more. He felt a scattering sense of disquiet and loss, and (no, no, not _yet_! Not _now_!) gradually it subsided (Cain, Cain, he remembered something about a man named Cain, and Raw, and DG, and something terribly important, and, oh, he had let them down, let them… who? What was going on? Where had the doctors gone?) until he found himself abruptly isolated, caught within the flawless prison of his own psyche.

His synapses shifted and settled like stirred sediment at the bottom of some murky lake, back into their accustomed niches.

What had been the allure of that vortex of sentimentality? He could hardly comprehend such frivolity. How very strange, how much he had reacted to it. It warranted further study, should the chance ever arise again.

Some part of him – some remaining glimmer of Glitch – cried out. They had failed, had failed so utterly, just as they had before.

It was a trifling matter. It was not his concern as to what the subjects in question did with the relayed information. After all, they were insignificant beings, creatures trapped by flesh, a slave to their physical forms. Ah, but _he_, he was perfect, intellect in its purest form. A perfect prism of thought.

A final, dull pang of regret - and he was alone once more.


End file.
